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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27083029">enrapture</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenousassault/pseuds/ravenousassault'>ravenousassault</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy XIV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Frottage, M/M, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-09 02:13:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,530</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27083029</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenousassault/pseuds/ravenousassault</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>it’s all you can focus on — him and the tip of his blade resting against your skin as he tilts your head upwards to meet his. you struggle to catch your breath, only to lose it again as your eyes meet. his gaze is fire, scorching you with an intensity that is mirrored in yours. </p><p>you’ve never seen him look so <i>alive</i>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Zenos yae Galvus/Warrior of Light</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>enrapture</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>*smashes the publish button before i start having second thoughts* go big or go home, right? </p><p>takes place during 4.0, between the second and third zenos fights.</p><p><b>obligatory disclaimer:</b> this is 100% self-indulgent. forgive the subpar porn, i haven’t posted nsfw in half a decade (or more). i’m trying to keep the wol vague, but for all intents and purposes, they’re a dark knight and have a dick.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What do you want.”</p><p>Your voice is calm, level, betraying none of the instinctive panic that had arisen when you saw the unmistakable figure of Zenos Yae Galvus approaching you. To stumble upon the enemy in the dead of the night when you are nowhere near a Castrum is no mere coincidence.</p><p>“A spar, Warrior,” his removes his helm, revealing a gaze that is all too knowing, “Unless you would rather continue clearing out the local fauna?” You’d rather not, thank you very much. Not when the promise of a far more enticing fight is quite literally standing in front of you. </p><p>(Twice now, he has spared your life, when he could have so easily ended it, and perhaps part of you wants to know <em>why</em>.)</p><p>“I have a name you know,” you snap back without thinking, “Surely it wouldn’t hurt to use it.” </p><p>He laughs, low and amused. </p><p>“Like I said,” he drawls, unsheathing his blade with a languidness you had come to associate with him, “You must earn the honor.” </p><p>It is a poor form of baiting, you know (you’ve heard far worse things on the Bloodsands), but his words make something between the both of you snap, like a bowstring that has been stretched far past its limit. </p><p>You lunge towards him, feeling your fatigue melt away. You will give it your all — every dodge, every spin, every parry is faster than the one before it. He is fast, yes, but you’ve learnt his tells from your previous skirmishes, the way he leans just a little bit more into a lunge when he is unleashing a particularly nasty blow, and how he almost always follows up each heavy swing with an aether-enhanced attack. </p><p>It’s not enough. </p><p>It is painfully evident that he is holding back. Hell, he’s not even using the Ame-no-Habakiri. You should be relieved, you know, but instead all you feel is frustration — frustration that you unleash in a single, heavy blow with your greatsword, catching him by surprise and taking off a single lock of his hair. </p><p>The blonde strands flutter to the ground, and your instincts scream at you to fall back, to brace for a follow-up swing, but your eyes are on the blood trickling down his cheek from where your blade had grazed him. His eyes are wide, and you allow yourself a brief moment of triumph in having caught him so clearly off-guard. </p><p>(Yes, this is what you want — to break through that apathy, to watch those soulless eyes flicker with life, to show him that you aren’t about to go down that easily.)</p><p>He is smiling, and with a start, you realise that you are too. It unsettles you — that you are enjoying this as much as he is, that you do not want your dance to end. </p><p>Your distraction is brief, but a mere moment is all he needs, and you curse as you realise that you are a split second too late to parry his blade as it whips towards your exposed neck. </p><p>The prickle of skin splitting as cold metal rests directly against your jugular is not wholly unfamiliar to you. <em>Well</em>, you think, <em>this certainly isn’t the worst way to go—</em></p><p>—and then, just as quickly as it had come, the blade is gone, though you barely have a second of reprieve before it reappears under your chin. </p><p>It’s all you can focus on — him and the tip of his blade resting against your skin as he tilts your head upwards to meet his. You struggle to catch your breath, only to lose it again as your eyes meet. His gaze is fire, scorching you with an intensity that is mirrored in yours. </p><p>You’ve never seen him look so <em>alive</em>. </p><p>“Oh,” he breathes, and it is tinged with equal parts surprise and elation, “Oh how right I was about you — the sole pleasure left for me in this dull, empty world.” </p><p>Perhaps it is the sweet satisfaction that floods through one’s veins after a good spar, or the desire to stop him from dropping another monologue on you, or maybe even both — that leads to this. You can’t remember who moved first, but you suppose it doesn’t really matter at this point, not when your lips meet in a frenzied kiss, hard and bruising, all teeth and tongue. </p><p>There is nothing graceful about how you end up pinned against a tree, fumbling with his armor <em>(what is with Garleans and layers?)</em>. Then again, you muse, nothing about this is supposed to be graceful. You’re running on pure adrenaline, with only your carnal instincts to guide you as you roll your hips upwards to meet his. </p><p>A sharp intake of breath is the only reaction you receive, so you repeat the motion again, but slower, relishing in the low groan he makes. His hair falls around you like a curtain, glinting gold in the moonlight. You can taste the blood on his lips — copper and salt against your tongue as you press a kiss to his throat, revelling in the way his pulse speeds up. </p><p>You let yourself fall backwards against the rough bark, content to lose yourself in the moment (<em>For the</em> <em>time between the seconds</em>, he had said back when you confronted him in Doma). His hands make quick work of your clothing, pieces of armor and fabric falling to the forest floor as you shift into a more comfortable position. </p><p>From the way he grinds relentlessly against your thigh, he is enjoying this just as much as you are. His gaze is no longer bored and empty, but heated and wanting, and you are drawn to it like a moth towards a flame. You shouldn’t want this, you know, but you do, and you can’t bring yourself to stop as you meet his gaze with equal ferocity.</p><p>“I care little for the pleasures of the flesh,” he rasps, and the sheer rawness in his voice takes your breath away, “But you — you, whom I’ve had the joy of hunting, of being hunted by. You did this to me,” he presses his hips against yours to make his point.</p><p>“You’re my hunter,” you whisper against his skin, marking him as much as he has marked you — if not more, leaving trails of bites and bruises around his collarbones, “My prey.” <em>As I am yours</em>, goes unsaid, but from the way he shudders, he knows it anyway. </p><p>His only response is a guttural sound, more beast than man. Then again, you suppose you could be compared to beasts right now, biting and clawing at each other with the ferocity of wild animals. You can feel the numerous marks and scratches he has left on your skin, and while it would be laughably easy to heal them up (which you will have to, eventually), you find yourself reluctant to. They are badges, trophies — a constant, physical reminder of how <em>real</em> this is. </p><p>You take a moment to look at him, and by the twelve, he is a sight to behold. Flushed skin, parted lips, the faintest smears of blood still on his lips — he looks utterly debauched. Your handiwork snakes down his neck, pale red bruises a stark contrast against his fair skin.</p><p>It is not enough. You want to see him come undone (want him to feel as alive as you are right now), so you reach for a lock of his hair, and tug. Hard. </p><p>The shudder that wracks his body is visible, and you drink in the sight of him falling apart by your words, your hands <em>(and yours alone)</em>. You want to see more of that fire, to tease out every reaction, every stitled gasp. </p><p>You bite down on his shoulder, hard enough that you can taste the all-too familiar metallic tang of blood. It is <em>still </em>not enough though, so you follow up with a swipe of your thumb over his tip as you stroke him.</p><p>By the Twelve, the moan he lets out is positively <em>obscene</em>. You grin as you’re pulled into another messy kiss, relishing the way he bucks into your hands as the grip around your hips tightens. </p><p>His hands are not those of a prince. They’re the hands of a warrior — rough and calloused, very much like yours. They’re gripping you hard enough to bruise, and the thought sends a shiver down your spine. </p><p>My hunter. My prey. Mine, mine, <em>mine</em>. </p><p>You feel him — his length pressed against yours, the rough, desperate strokes as he brings you both to completion. With a muffled cry, you come, spilling over his hands as you reach up to pull him into a bruising kiss, carding your hands through his hair roughly as you ride out the aftershocks together.  The silence that blankets the both of you is far from uncomfortable — you are content to remain as you are, slumped bonelessly against him as a wave of fatigue and exhaustion washes over you. Come morning, you know that the both of you will go your separate ways, but for now, under the cover of the night sky, you reveal in the fact that he is <em>yours</em> just as you are <em>his</em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i’m a simple man. sometimes i want zenos to raw me, and sometimes i want to raw him. this time, i want to do neither and instead indulged in some post-battle frottage. i know i tagged this as pwp but hey, it’s zenoswol — fighting is part of their foreplay.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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